He waltzes me around, holding my feet off the ground.
‘You’ve made my day,’ he says, before holding me at arm’s length. ‘Give us a twirl.’
‘I’m not a performing monkey.’
‘Cheeky as one.’
I introduce him to Henry. Daragh steps closer and lifts each of Henry’s arms and does a slow circuit. I half expect him to kick his tyres or ask to see the logbook.
‘Bit of mileage on the clock,’ he says. ‘Is he second-hand?’
‘He’s new enough for me,’ I say.
I can see Henry getting annoyed.
Clifton interrupts, ‘Eddie doesn’t know she’s ’ere.’
‘Where is the flash cunty? He’s the only one missing.’
‘The Duchess wants to make an entrance.’
I look around and ask about Finbar, the third of my uncles.
‘Poppy will still be deciding what to wear,’ says Daragh. ‘Or she’s herding grandkids.’
‘How many does he have?’
‘Seven, with another on the way.’
‘Who’s pregnant?’
‘Katie.’
‘But she’s only, what?’
‘Nineteen. Pretty as a rose.’
‘I used to babysit her.’
‘That’s what you buggers do, grow up,’ says Clifton. ‘And some of you become rozzers.’
‘You heard.’
‘Course we ’eard.’
‘I hope you won’t hold it against me.’
‘Why would we? Some of my best mates are coppers.’
‘And worst enemies,’ adds Daragh. ‘Good and bad in any profession.’
‘Bent and straight,’ I say.
‘That, too,’ he grins. ‘How is your mother?’
‘She doesn’t know I’m here.’
‘That’s very wise. I’ve been banged up with some of the most dangerous fucking criminals in this green and pleasant land, but your old lady frightens me more than any of ’em.’
‘She likes you.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m very likeable.’
My mother’s relationship with my uncles has never been an issue – she loved them and they loved her, but their loyalties will always lie with my father.
More people have arrived and the noise level has risen. A few guests approach me, knowing my name. Every conversation seems to begin with, ‘I remember when you were …’
Suddenly, the music stops and a different tune strikes up, a string-led version of ‘Happy Birthday’。 People turn and face the house, where my father emerges from the French doors. His oiled hair is darker than I remember and he’s dressed in a white suit that makes him look like Colonel Sanders. Constance is beside him in a matching white dress with a swooping neckline and elbow-length white gloves. They descend the steps arm in arm and walk along the flower-lined path to the marquee. Everybody is singing the song, belting out the final lines, before launching into ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’。 When the cheers have faded, Edward McCarthy is swamped by guests and I lose sight of him.
‘Wait ’ere,’ says Daragh. ‘I’ll go get him.’
‘Let him enjoy his moment.’
‘Bollocks! This will make his fuckin’ day.’
He disappears into the throng, who are all recharging their glasses and queuing for food at the buffet. Clifton is deep in conversation with Henry, discussing firefighting and famous London buildings that have burned down, deciding which ones were accidents or insurance jobs. Clifton seems to have a suspiciously good knowledge.
Clifton’s accent makes Henry sound like an Eton old boy, but he’s not some illiterate wideboy. His nickname is ‘the bookkeeper’ because of his head for dates and numbers. Each of my uncles has a particular skill set they have brought to the business. Daragh is the muscle, Clifton handles the books, and Finbar can talk the language of engines, able to ‘hot-wire any motor from a Maserati to a mobile crane’， according to my father.
Amid the general hubbub, I hear Constance complaining.
‘You can’t just drag him away – he was talking to the Lord Mayor … Let go of his arm. You’re creasing his suit.’
The crowd parts. My father scans the faces, wondering who he’s supposed to be looking for. Finally, his eyes come to rest on mine. Despite the sunbed sessions, the steam rooms, and his dye-darkened hair, he looks older. He is older.
He reaches out and touches my cheek as if wanting proof that I’m real.
‘Hello,’ I say.
Then his knees buckle. Clifton catches him before he lands, and Daragh takes his other arm, holding him upright.
‘Eddie, are you all right?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine.’
He tries to shrug away the helpers, but wobbles again. They won’t let him go.
‘I think you should sit down.’
Constance’s hand has fluttered to her mouth and she keeps repeating, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Get him a chair,’ someone shouts.
‘Stand back. He needs air.’
Daddy ignores the fuss and reaches out to me, wanting to keep me close.
‘Too much excitement,’ he says.
‘Too much sun,’ I add. ‘He should be wearing a hat.’
A man with a grey cloud of hair forces his way between shoulders. Another face from my childhood – Dr Carmichael, our family GP, who gave me every injection and inoculation and prescription.
He pushes Daragh to one side and puts his ear to my father’s chest, asking for quiet. His hands are wrinkled and blotchy, but still steady.
‘OK, let’s get him inside.’
Daragh and Clifton take his arms. He protests, threatening to ‘deck both of you’。 Eventually, they let him walk unassisted across the rose garden and up the steps to the French doors. He waves to guests as he goes, shaking hands and blowing kisses.
‘Won’t be long. Don’t drink all the bloody bubbles before I get back.’
Constance is suddenly next to me.
‘This is your fault.’
‘What?’
‘Why didn’t you say you were coming … give us some warning?’
‘You spent weeks badgering me.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t think …’
We go to the library, where a couch is cleared of cushions and his white coat is removed. Dr Carmichael tells everybody to leave.
‘Not Philomena.’ Daddy tries to take my hand, but I step away.
The room has an upright piano littered with musical scores, old portraits on the walls, shelves lined with books, and a fireplace with an enormous grate. Above the mantelpiece, the propellor from an old-fashioned biplane has been polished and put on display.
Constance doesn’t know what to do with herself. She lights a cigarette. Dr Carmichael tells her to put it out. She looks at him angrily, but her shiny forehead refuses to buckle.
‘Where are his pills?’ asks the doctor.
‘I’ll get them,’ says Constance.
‘What pills?’ I ask.
Dr Carmichael is taking his pulse and temperature and listening more closely to his heart. He is firing off questions about chest pains and dizziness and nausea.
‘What pills?’ I ask again.